Dear mental disease,
Why must you be so determined to hurt others? You, the destroyer, rip apart the line between reality and personal fears. You grip onto people, leeching away positivity with your deniability. You plant a viral seed in genes, passing the curse down generation to generation. You made me doubt myself for a good portion of my short life.
Growing up, I thought you would leave me be. You ruined my grandmother's mind, making her incredibly paranoid and aggressive when in fits of jealousy. You made my own mother jealous of me at age 14. There I was, incredibly naive and confused because You made me think You weren't real. I imagined You as a harmless monster under my bed, because You didn't exist. I was invincible.
Until I tried to commit suicide.
I was 13 or 14, living in a pigsty farmhouse. I only rode back and forth from school. There was no real communication with my friends, and I was lucky to get to go to the grocery store. When relatives who cared about me tried to reach out, you told me that they were evil. They just wanted to trap me in their house like a little pet too. You told me that these relatives wanted me to work like a slave in Antebellum days, pampering their favorite children above myself. I believed you. I tried to stick a knife in the toaster, but one of the other children wanted me to make them food. I tried to drown in the bath, but the water was too hot.
You escalated. You made me paranoid of everyone. I hid all of my schoolwork, art and personal items away from everyone. They were going to steal all of my possessions because they were mean, jealous people. I believed you. I didn't talk. I sat in the bathroom instead of eating breakfast or lunch at school. I performed at my lowest standard. I didn't talk to anyone, save for one friend, over the phone. Every time we ended our phone calls, you made me absolutely positive that she didn't like talking to me at all. I tried jumping out of a second story window. I started writing angsty gibberish on my walls and shelves in crayon and number two pencil. I came to the conclusion that not only was everyone out to get me, but that I deserved it. You made me aggressive towards everyone, even the bad people in my life, for no reason other than to keep me in a constant state of paranoia.
You did, however, help me after I became aggressive. You showed me the effects of accepting your curses. I was beaten with utensils. I was beaten with belts. I was beaten with a steel bottle. I realized that I needed help or I would beat others too one day. I went to my grandparents. I got real help. I started therapy. I got my symptoms diagnosed. Thanks to you, I have borderline personality disorder and depression. That's a very horrible weight to bear, but I'll be OK because I recognized something was wrong and sought out treatment.
You affect so many people, most of whom will not have the luck I did in noticing what you do to the human mind. I will never let you manipulate my fears with no resistance ever again. I will fight you in any way I can. I will research how you warp the mind. I will actively participate in finding solutions that halt your progress. You will never hurt anyone again so long as I have a say in what I think and do.
Sincerely,
A fighter
